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Jenna dabbed at her lower lashes. “Please, Eric, please get out of here.”
“Okay. I’m sorry, Jen, but I will call you later. We need to talk. It’s important.” He unlocked the door and, head down, brushed by Cheryl who was still pressed against the window.
Chapter Seven
Bree Davis Laine stood by an open brace of French doors that led to tiers of shining pink granite. A breath of warm air caught the hem of her filmy cover-up, and it fluttered against her ankles. The terrace of her Pacific Palisades mansion was perfection. Cypress and exotic palms led to the crystal blue waters of an infinity pool, every inch of it a splendor of hand-painted tile. The house and grounds was one of her favorite places in the world, and she had no intention of losing it.
For all of her life, she believed her destiny was a life of red-carpet events, upscale homes, and first-class travel. But the lifestyle of the ultra-rich and famous had, for too long, been a whisper’s distance away. She’d lived just at the edge, able to grasp only a scintilla of luxury until she’d turned a brooding, gorgeous young man into a star. Now, after six years of marriage, he was walking away.
Bree stepped outside and looked beyond her land to the hillsides. Golden swells and dips, dappled in sunshine, were simply dead grass, still, the vista was beautiful and enjoying it another part of her destiny. It was one she didn’t believe in leaving to chance. She picked up her phone and dialed.
Less than an hour later, the man she’d summoned stood at the foot of her chaise. “Finding her might not be easy,” he said. “She’s been in the ether for a long time.”
Bree slid nine-thousand-dollar sunglasses from her eyes up onto her head. “I know exactly how long she’s been gone.”
Private detective Stephen Powers took a seat on the ottoman near her chair. “Are you looking for leverage in your divorce? Do you think she and your husband have reconnected?”
In an unconcerned sweep, Bree smoothed suntan lotion onto her legs. “No. I’m trying to make sure they don’t.” She handed the detective an old newspaper clipping. “I also want you to find him.” She rubbed more lotion onto her legs as the detective studied the sooty, black and white image.
He lifted his head, his eyes wide. “This is Mark Chambers, the guy your husband went to trial for almost beating to death. What are you up to?”
“Does it matter?” Bree snapped her pricey sunglasses back down over her eyes. Their business was done.
****
Eric paced the confines of his motel room. He ate chips and candy from the vending machine at the end of the hallway and drank three bottles of water out of restless boredom. He spent the day driving himself crazy thinking about Jenna. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt her. Though she’d begged him to leave, she appeared torn, as if battling with reason and emotion. He felt no such uncertainty. His feelings were crystal clear. It took only one glance for him to know he was still in love with her.
He paced more, dropped onto the lumpy mattress, and surfed the nineteen channels on the television bolted inside the particle board armoire. He needed to get out of the room. According to the paper he’d grabbed from the lobby, his new movie was playing at the multiplex in the local mall. It had gotten great reviews.Why? He’d filmed half the action flick in front of a green screen, and it was just one giant explosion.
He picked up his phone a dozen or so times but never dialed her number. Food eventually crossed his mind, so he took a shower he didn’t need and shrugged into jeans and a sweatshirt. Plopping a baseball cap onto his head and slipping dark glasses over his eyes, he set off for the motel parking lot. He had no idea where he was going but supposed there would be a restaurant or diner somewhere along the road. Hopefully no one outside would notice him squeezing behind the wheel of the dinky subcompact.Who said celebrities got everything they wanted?He didn’t have a divorce agreement, didn’t have Jenna, and Discount Rental didn’t have any midsize sedans available. He started the car and pulled out of the lot.
After doing a loop at the outskirts of the town proper, he pulled onto a grassy shoulder next to a place wrapped in weathered clapboard. Neon signs were in each window. A beer seemed to be in order. The clack of pool balls sounded from somewhere in the back, and classic rock played on the jukebox. The tavern wasn’t exactly a dump but not nice enough to require the barmaid to wear a starchy looking white shirt and bow tie. Eric sympathized, remembering how he’d once hauled dirty glasses in tie and cummerbund. Like most actors, he’d ridden a carousel of jobs before fame struck—bar-back, waiter, construction worker, just to name a few.
He straddled a stool and asked for a draught and order of hot wings. The server placed a chilled mug in front of him and rushed off to place his food order. With his elbows propped on the bar and his face shadowed by the brim of his cap, Eric slowly sipped his beer. He wondered when the girl behind the bar would recognize him. Although he managed to keep a grip on his ego, he had come to expect the fuss his presence usually created.
As he drank, he thought back to a time early in his career when he’d made the mistake of walking into an East L.A. bar in a tuxedo. He’d been arguing with Bree at an award’s after-party because she claimed he wasn’t “networking enough” and talking to the right people.
“You’re my manager, you suck up for me,” he’d told her, then abruptly left and hailed a cab.Within minutes of walking into the Verona Street cantina, he’d found himself surrounded by bikers. Their ink and leather jacket patches told Eric they were members of the Mongols, the Latino motorcycle gang so ruthless they’d run the Hell’s Angels out of the area.
A hand had come down in a steely grip on his shoulder. “Pinches gabachos.”
The man attached to the hand had been huge, barrel bellied and tattooed. He shoved Eric down onto a stool. A woman had sidled over, her long sable hair trailing past a narrow waist. Her whisper had been silk at his ear. “Eres guapo.” The gang members hadn’t appreciated her smile or her tone, and, menacing and leather clad, they’d surrounded him.
“I’ll just be on my way,” Eric said. But as he attempted to rise, he’d been pushed back down into his seat. A sea of gold teeth, chains, and spikes bore down, and he realized there was no way out of the situation he’d so carelessly placed himself in. As he waited to get his ass handed to him, the first commandment of all reform schools popped into his head. Having spent two years fighting for survival in juvie, he knew the philosophy well.Take the biggest guy out and stand your ground. A variation on the theme was a better idea in this situation, he’d quickly decided—take the biggest guy out and run like hell.
Leaning back as far as he could, he swung and hit the huge biker squarely in the mouth. Falling backward into the others, he and hiscabronslanded like felled trees. Eric had been barely through the door when the mob was up and after him. As he ran down the street he’d almost collided with another large figure, Nick Lombardo, poised with a baseball bat and ready to do battle.
“I ought to use this on you, you stupid bastard!” Nick had roared. “What the hell goes on in your head going into a place like this, and in a tuxedo no less!”
“Later, Nick. In about ten seconds some very bad-ass bikers are going to turn that corner.”
Looking around now, in a much safer space, Eric downed the rest of his beer and snorted a laugh. Even after all these years, he still wondered how Nick had managed to make a U-turn with a super-stretch on such a narrow street. Thank God he had followed him.
“Here are your wings…Another beer?” Eric finally raised his head and thanked the barmaid.
“Oh my God. I don’t believe it. You’re Eric Laine!”
He shushed her and bribed her with an exorbitant tip in return for her silence. He ate his food and had a second beer. When he left the tavern, Jenna was still on his mind.
